Spilled Ink
by sanicholson
Summary: "After a mishap of literary proportions, Ford goes shopping and meets someone new. Then Fiddleford does some snooping, and I overuse the word 'stationery.'" A lighthearted, gender-neutral reader insert story featuring our favourite six-fingered nerd.


Ford cursed his clumsiness, scrubbing at the ink stains smeared across his hands. Despite his best efforts, the running water and soap did little to remove the dark smudges from his skin. With a frustrated sigh, he gave up, grabbing a hand towel from the rack beside the bathroom sink.

It was his own fault; he'd been rushing to include every detail of their day's findings into his notes. And while writing with both hands usually didn't pose a problem for him, in his haste, he'd knocked the desk with his knee, sending his ink bottle spilling across the surface and to the floor with a wet crash.

Thankfully, he'd reacted fast enough to grab his Journals, but the rest of his supplies had become thoroughly drenched and useless.

"You alright in there, buddy?"

Ford nodded absentmindedly as Fiddleford called to him, leaving the bathroom to find his partner throwing a few ink-stained paper towels into the trash.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just a careless mistake on my part," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose above his glasses. "Thank you for your help."

His partner chuckled.

"Not a problem, but it looks like we'll be needin' to run back into town sooner than we planned."

Ford groaned as he tossed aside the hand towel. Re-stocking normally wasn't a considerable chore; a couple quick trips to a select few stores. But seeing as how his entire stationery set would need to be replaced, there was only one place to go.

With a defeated sigh, Ford shrugged on his coat.

* * *

Ford didn't consider himself much of a shopper; most of his purchases were made in bulk so as to save time and avoid multiple trips. But when it came to his writing, he would admit he was… particular.

He had a certain fondness for traditional penmanship; ballpoint pens and, when he could spare the time, a nice feathered quill. However, that meant paying a visit to Mrs. Denuda's stationery shop. It was the only one of its kind in town, and Ford suspected he was single-handedly keeping it in business.

Between first discovering the run-down store back in his early days of Gravity Falls to now, Ford could list every other customer he'd ever encountered on one hand (extra finger included). It might've been due to the changing times, though it was more likely on the account of the store owner herself.

A crooked-toothed, wiry woman whose age rivalled that of the oldest iron gall inks she offered, Mrs. Denuda would debate about parchments and wax seals until she was blue in the face. Or, if you were especially unlucky, whatever new recipe of shortbread she was experimenting with.

Ford had gradually become accustomed to her long-winded rambling and usually tried to humour the woman during his few and far-between visits.

You do what you have to for the sake of science.

That was what Ford told himself as he walked over the stained welcome mat to open the tarnished brass door, its hinges squealing in protest. The familiar bell jingled above his head, echoing in the quiet of the empty shop.

It was a cramped, dark space. High, oak shelves lined the walls, neatly stocked with hundreds of boxes, scrolls, and tubes of quills. Small, leather-bound journals in all shapes and colours sat in rows piled right up to the ceiling.

A shiver ran down Ford's back despite the balmy summer sun. The dimly lit shop and its ambience never failed to make his breath hitch.

Wandering further inside, Ford found the front desk to be vacant. Odd; he'd never seen Mrs. Denuda leave her place behind the counter.

"Hello? Uh… Mrs. Denuda?"

He was met with no answer, so for the first time ever, Ford tapped the service bell. It rang shrilly, followed by a beat of silence. And then-

"Just a moment!"

Ford turned towards the shelves at his back, the unfamiliar voice coming from the far end of the room. Making his way around the winding pathway of bookcases, he eventually came to a dead end, finding no one.

Until he looked up.

It was difficult to see properly in the store's gloom, but Ford was able to make out a figure standing at the top of one of the rolling ladders, leaning on tiptoes to reach something on an adjacent shelf.

"I'll be down in a second. I just… need to put this…-there!"

With a triumphant little _'ah-ha!'_ , the figure corrected themselves and carefully descended the ladder, a clipboard clutched tightly under their arm.

Clearing the bottom step, they turned at last to face him, and Ford's glasses slipped an inch down his nose.

The person before him looked to be about his age, dressed in a red long sleeve shirt with tight-fitting jeans, an ink-stained smock, and a pencil behind their ear. Bright eyes were magnified behind a set of circular frames as they grinned at him with such a radiant smile that Ford's heart beat just a _little_ faster.

"Sorry to keep you waiting; I was just finishing up a little inventory," they apologized breathlessly. "How can I help you?"

Ford swallowed under their curious gaze, and his next sentence came out a halting jumble.

"I-I'm looking for Denuda-Mrs. Denuda… if she's available?"

"Oh. Well actually, my aunt is away for the next few weeks," they explained, understanding now dawning on their face. "She threw her back out on the job at the start of the month, so I'm filling in until she recovers."

 _Aunt?_ Had Mrs. Denuda ever mentioned any nieces or nephews? Not that Ford could recall. Though admittedly he'd never been very invested in their conversations, and for the second time that day, he was cursing his inattentiveness.

"Ah. I see," Ford mumbled, tugging at his collar awkwardly.

Silence stretched between the two of them for what felt like eons, with Ford looking anywhere but at the person in front of him. He realized he should probably say something - anything - but they beat him to it.

"But _I'd_ be happy to help… if you'd like to place an order?" they offered again, tilting their head to the side with a gentle smile.

Ford's cheeks went pink, and he nodded. "Yes, I-that's what I'm here. To do. Yes."

He almost sagged with relief when they chuckled, wiping their free hand on their work smock. "Alright then!"

He was quickly gestured back towards the service counter. Leaning below the desk, they deposited their clipboard and pulled out a pad of paper. Swiping the pencil from their ear, they looked at him expectantly.

"So, what can I get for you?"

Ford was still frazzled, but at least this was a somewhat simpler task; he did have his usual list memorized, after all.

"8 bottles of premium grade ballpoint pen ink, in both black and red; two dozen packages of blank and lined note paper…"

They began scribbling down his order, mouthing the words quietly to themselves as they went. But then they slowed to a stop, brow arched in sudden thought.

"Is something wrong?" Ford asked, trying and failing not to notice the way they were nibbling their bottom lip.

They hesitated for a moment, eying a Rolodex sitting on the desk beside them. Then they were smiling at him again, brushing off his concern with a shake of their head. Finishing his list, they were off in a flash.

He watched in awe as they grabbed box after box, never once slowing or stumbling. They clearly knew the rickety store very well, finding each and every one of his items with ease and efficiency. How is it that he'd never seen them before today? Surely it wasn't a series of coincidences or poor timing, though, in this town, Ford couldn't write it off completely.

A flurry of questions jumped to the forefront of his thoughts.

 _Did they live local, or abroad? Were they finished school? What was their major? ...Had Mrs. Denuda ever spoke about him?_

Ford met their eyes midway up a ladder, caught in the act of staring. He stumbled through a hurried excuse - _something about admiring their organizational skills?_ \- while wondering why something so trivial left him feeling embarrassed.

Their laughter echoed from up high.

"Before I moved away for college, I used to spend all of my free afternoons here. I know every nook and cranny there is. And there are _a lot_ of them."

Ford didn't doubt that for a second.

Soon enough, the last bottle of ink was safely placed in a carrying box and moved to the service counter.

"There, that should be everything!" they said, wiping their hands on their smock again.

Their lively attitude was infectious, and Ford let out a hesitant chuckle.

"Thank you for all the help. I know my order was quite… substantial."

"It wasn't anything I couldn't handle! Besides, this was actually on the lighter side compared to your other orders."

Ford must have looked puzzled because they leaned to the edge of the counter and grabbed the Rolodex from earlier. Flipping through the cards with nimble fingers, they paused midway into the stack with a smirk.

"I thought so," they said to themselves with a pleased smile.

Turning the card over, they began to read Ford's list aloud - nearly verbatim to today's - amidst his shocked stammering.

"H-how did-"

"Aunt Lydia left me a log of her regulars and their orders for while she was gone. And there's only one name on here that she warned me would clear us out."

Grinning, they turned the card over for Ford to see, and in heavily-looping cursive script was his name.

"So, tell me, _Stanford_ ," they asked, drawing out his name and leaving the man in question ears hot. "What does one guy need with enough ink to sink the eastern seaboard? A training artisan, perhaps? Polishing up your calligraphy? I know I've always wanted to, but never really found the time for-"

"Ford."

Their eyebrows raised, smirk softening in confusion. "…What?"

"My name-uh, it's just-or rather you… you can just call me Ford."

Ford was mortified, his flustered brain spitting out the only thing that had come to mind. But to his bemusement, their mouth opened ever so slightly, face flushing softly.

"Oh, o-of course. 'Ford' it is, then," they said with a sheepish smile.

The pink in their cheeks proved to be an effective distraction because suddenly his supplies were packed into paper shopping bags, the cash register ringing with Ford's purchase total.

He handed over the bills to pay, praying that his palms weren't damp with perspiration.

They made his change in record time, giving it back with the smallest of smiles.

"You know, Tea Tree oil works wonders on ink."

Ford blinked and saw them glancing at his hands, which, to his horror, were still stained from earlier that morning.

With burning cheeks, he adjusted his glasses in what he hoped resembled a controlled action, clearing his throat roughly.

"Thank you. I-I'll have to… keep that in mind."

They introduced themself ("It's only fair, right?") and after readily assuring them that, yes, he most certainly would be able to carry everything by himself, Ford was wished a good afternoon with a little wave from behind the counter.

"Come back anytime!" they chimed with one last brilliant smile, and Ford nearly tripped over the welcome mat as he stammered his goodbyes.

* * *

Following a fairly restless nights sleep - his thoughts occupied by a certain smile - Ford found himself unable to focus on much of anything. He'd stared blankly at the pages of his research books all morning, the words slipping through his grasp like water.

When lunch (and the stationery shop opening hours) finally rolled around, Ford quickly packed up his things and was one foot out the door when-

"Where ya goin' Ford?"

The six-fingered man froze, turning to look back at his confused colleague who was nursing a fresh cup of what he assumed to be coffee.

"Hmm?" Ford replied in the most neutral tone he could.

"I thought you said we weren't headin' to the crash site 'til later tonight. Why the ants in your pants?"

"Oh. Uh, well, I noticed I'd forgotten to pick up a few things. While I was out. Yesterday."

Fiddleford slowly arched a brow. "…Like what?"

Ford's heart missed a beat. "Uh… pens. They completely slipped my mind."

"…Pens, huh?"

"Yes. We're extremely low. Can't risk it, I'm afraid."

"…Right."

For a moment, it appeared that Fiddleford was going to question him further. But instead, he just shrugged, taking a sip from his mug and wandered towards the dining room.

Ford heaved a sigh of relief, pulling the door shut behind him.

* * *

This became the routine for the following weeks.

Around mid-afternoon, Fiddleford would watch Ford pull what he probably believed to be a stealthy exit and head into town, face flushed warmer than a California sunrise. He did pretty much all of their shopping now; any excuse to get out of the house.

At first, he paid it no mind; Ford had always been a little secretive. But Fiddleford knew he could trust the man he was happy to call his partner.

It wasn't until Fiddleford noted the growing amount of receipts and inkwells did he start to suspect something was afoot. They were hidden in every available alcove in the house; under the stairs, inside the closets, stuffed into the spare couch in the attic.

Fiddleford was rightly curious about his friend's daily disappearances. So, he did what any good friend would do: he made a phone call.

Looking up the number for their usual stationery store, Fiddleford punched the digits into the living room phone, twirling the long, yellowing cord around his fingers while he waited. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Four-

" _Denuda Stationery!_ What can we help you write today?"

The voice that came through the receiver was a touch out of breath, but upbeat and energetic nonetheless. Certainly not the cranky cat woman they'd dealt with in the past.

"Uh, howdy. Sorry to bother ya, I was just looking for my partner, Stanford Pines? I think he mentioned stoppin' by your store today."

"You just missed him, I'm afraid! Ford left about 10 minutes ago," the voice answered.

"Did he? Well then, I guess I'll see him soon."

"Oh, I wasn't keeping him from something important, was I? He came in trying to decide which inks would better suit his line work, and I kinda rambled for a bit."

Abashed tone aside, Fiddleford could hear their smile plain as day through the phone.

Not to mention the fact that Ford was apparently showing off his sketches now?

Fiddleford scoffed.

The last time _he'd_ tried to sneak a peek at his friend's illustrations, Stanford had snapped his Journal shut so fast, he'd nearly gotten his nose caught in the pages.

Ford must have it _bad_.

"No, no, it's nothin' like that. He's just been spending a lot more time in town recently, is all. I wanted to see what was occupyin' his time."

The line went quiet, then a nervous laugh.

"I'm really sorry. Ford's just been kind enough to visit and listen to me blather on about this and that. …I should've known he had more important things to do."

The apology came on a quiet breath, and their voice had gone tight.

Fiddleford frowned.

Almost a _month_ spent chattin' and Ford hadn't made a move yet?

Figures, he thought with a roll of his eyes.

"Trust me, Ford isn't the type to spend his time frivolously. If he keeps comin' back to visit your store, it means he thinks it worthwhile."

"And between you and me, we already have a swimming pool's worth of ink, so I doubt it's for that," Fiddleford added with a wry smile and was rewarded with a choked splutter.

"Well, thanks your time," he continued, a noticeable twinge of satisfaction in his tone. "I'm sure I'll be hearing all about you from my partner when he gets back. Have a nice day, now."

"Y-you too…" they mumbled dazedly, and the call ended.

Fiddleford hung the phone back on its dock, already working on a plan.

While it was true that Ford wasn't the most adept when it came to matters of the heart, if he didn't do something about this new-found crush soon, they'd be buying quills everyday for the foreseeable future.

Nothin' quite like young love, Fiddleford mused, whistling a cheery tune as he strolled out to the porch to wait for his colleagues return. _Now all it need was a_ _little push in the right direction._

Ford's panicked, sweaty face flashed before his mind's eye.

 _…Maybe a big push._


End file.
